


The Aim of Artemis

by Lana_Holt



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lana_Holt/pseuds/Lana_Holt
Summary: Everlark Fic Exchange - Springtime 2017: Prompt #2Before the Quarter Quell. The victors decide to include Katniss in their plans for the rebellion.**********The victors have one aim -- to penetrate the forcefield of the arena.Katniss Everdeen is the best aim they have.But can she keep their secret from the one person with whom she wants to share everything?





	1. Chapter 1

I’ve never seen him like this. Never.

Never this nervous. Have I ever seen him nervous at all?

I’ve seen Haymitch angry, nasty, and when he shows the occasional shred of concern for a human other than himself, and doesn’t drown it in liquor, I’ve seen him worried. But nervous?  To talk to me?

Why else would he be pacing back and forth in front of me? Grabbing at the thinning hair on the back of his head with one hand, while the other clutches the china cup of tea my mother gave him, occasionally looking down at it like it might magically transform into the beverage he’d prefer.

The longer this goes on, the more _I_ start to feel nervous. But I’m trapped here in the sitting room alone with him. Alone with this crazy old man who drinks too much and sleeps with a knife, although right now he looks less like he’s plotting harm against me and more like he wants to propose.

I grit my teeth and tell myself not to be mad at Peeta, but this is all his fault. Every day since the Quarter Quell was announced he’s had us run ragged at some pointless attempt at training.  Today it took its toll, and I re-injured my ankle.  After he carried me home and set me in here on a comfy sofa with my foot propped up, I expected him to stay and keep apologizing, to wait on me like I know he wants to.

“What did you say to Peeta to get him to leave?” I ask. This, at least, is something to break the silence.

“What?” Haymitch says, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. Gray eyes stare at me in confusion. Clearly his train of thought was headed elsewhere, and is already too far down the tracks. But at least he’s made eye contact.

“You must’ve said something to Peeta.”

His eyes narrow to a squint, deep lines forming at the corners, and then his lips curl up in his familiar sarcastic smile.

He smiles because he knows me too well.  He knows that I know that there’s something he really doesn’t want to tell me.  And he knows that I’m not asking what it is because I really don’t _want_ to know.  He’s right, of course.  A thousand terrifying thoughts swirl in my head.  The greatest one is that one of them – Gale or Peeta – will come up with some stupid plan to save me from the Quell.  Because they’re boys, and that’s what boys do for girls they love.  Stupid things.

Then, as if to make the situation even more surreal, Haymitch walks over to the music player and turns it on.  His finger rides the volume button until old folk songs fill the room at an uncomfortable level.

“What are you doing?”

No sooner have I asked the question than he’s by my side, pushing in right next to me on the sofa, jostling the pillows my ankle rests on and making me wince.  I turn to see his face looming right in front of mine.

He raises his eyebrows flirtatiously and says, “Hello, sweetheart, how are you?”

“Haymitch!  What is going on?”

I can smell the liquor from the latest round on him.  So he did have something motivational before coming in here.  I try to scoot away, but he grabs my arm.  Hard.

He speaks right into my ear.  “I turned the music on so no one can hear us.”

“No one’s here but my mother.”  And Haymitch has chased her away, too.

“Haven’t you heard the expression ‘The walls have ears’?”

He looks intently at me now.  His closeness makes me so uncomfortable I long for escape, but I don’t try.  His eyes are storm clouds forming.  It chills me just like the sudden roll in of black clouds when I was out in the woods, little time to make it safely home. I know exactly what he means. A house built by the Capitol for the most precious residents of the district is not a safe place to talk. But here we are. And what he wants to say – or doesn’t want to say -- can’t wait.

“Peeta can’t know,” he says. “I had to wait until I could get you away from him.” I stare at him. My mouth has dropped open, but I don’t care.  “You can’t tell a soul. Not Prim, Gale, your mother. Not anyone you love. You’re going to want to. You’re going to want to tell everyone who cares about you. You can’t. You absolutely can’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said you want to save Peeta?”

“Yes.”

“Peeta wants to save _you_.”

“Of course he does.”

His voice lowers even more now.  I can barely hear him over the warbles and dueling banjos from the stereo.  “There’s a way we can save both of you.  Maybe.”

My stomach flips.  What he’s saying is crazy.  Impossible.  I should laugh, but instead some desperate part of me blurts out, “What? How?”

“First you promise.  You will not tell a soul.  You will not ask questions.  You will listen to what I tell you.  You will not demand to know more than I can give.”

Maybe because it’s Haymitch, but the desperate part of me is beaten back by my natural suspicion.  I narrow my eyes at him warily.  Is he drunk?  No.  I know when he’s drunk.  What could he possibly be thinking?  Some secret plan for sponsors?  Does he really not understand what’s happening here?

“There’s no way you can get us both out this time,” I say.   “Snow wants me dead.  That’s the whole point.”

Haymitch gazes at me.  Then he nods.  “I knew this was a bad idea.”  He gets to his feet and sets his tea cup on the table as if to go.

I stare up at him.  He looks down to meet my eyes one last time.  It’s a game of chicken.  Who will crack first?

And then I see it.

There amidst the storm clouds I see the one stray sunbeam.  It’s a glimmer of hope.  Haymitch never has hope.  Looking into Haymitch’s eyes and seeing hope is like looking into Buttercup’s eyes and seeing trust. Or fondness.

Now I want to know.  It’s stupid and probably pointless, and yet I want to know.  But I’m not ready to cave. He’s given me some leverage. If he knew it was a bad idea, that means someone talked him into it, which I point out:

“So someone else wants you to tell me.”

He leans down, invading my personal space again.  “Yes.  But the decision is up to me.”

I fold my arms.  “Fine.  I promise.”

“Promise what?”

“Promise that I won’t tell anyone.”

“No matter how much you want to.”

“No matter how much I want to.”

“I have your word?”

He knows what this means.  In the Seam, your word is the most valuable thing you have.  It’s your greatest currency.  Once given, you don’t take it back.

“You have my word.”

He slides in next to me on the sofa again.  It’s uncomfortable, but I don’t flinch this time.  I wait for him to speak.

“There’s a plan,” he says simply.

“Okay.”

“We wanted to keep you out of it.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“You don’t ask questions.”

I sigh.  “Okay.”

“But –”  He pauses, still not 100 percent sure he wants to do this.

“But…”

“We might need someone with good aim.”

“To do what?”  I realize that was a question, but he clearly needs some prompting.

Haymitch takes a deep breath, looks at me.  I see the sun breaking through the clouds.  And then he says:

“To break out of the arena.”


	2. Trust Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to JavisTG for the help with this one! You're the best! (and a great Everlark Librarian)
> 
> My apology to readers who get this confused with my Peeta fic, The Ride of Apollo. The two are unrelated. In hindsight, I probably should not have given them such similar names. Blame Plutarch. This fic is inspired by a prompt: The rebels decide to let Katniss in on the plan to break out of the arena.

Peeta can’t stay away. He shows up while we’re still eating supper, which is fine, because no one can eat anyway. Mealtime has been bad ever since the Quell was announced, my family dying inside because they know that I am dying, that every breath we take is another moment of my short life ticking away. It’s like last year’s reaping taking place in slow motion.

Today is even worse because I’m injured, and they’re terrified of the thought of me going into the arena unable to run.

I can’t eat, either. But I can’t eat because I’m exploding. Underneath the table, where no one can see, my one good foot is kicking so fast my toes never touch the floor.

I’m thrilled that there’s a chance – even a small chance – that I could come out of this alive. Peeta, too, if he ends up in the arena with me.

Peeta _especially_.

I'm thrilled and I'm mad. I’m mad at Haymitch for not telling me sooner that he’s part of the rebellion. I’m _furious_ that he won’t tell me anything more about it. Only that there’s a plan to break us out. It involves my archery skills and shooting into the air at something I might not be able to see. I wish I could find a way to get into the woods, to my bow. I want to practice. I’ve never had to shoot something in the sky that wasn’t moving.

And I’m even more furious because Haymitch was right – I want to tell them. I’ll explode if I don’t tell them.

Peeta especially. I promised him on the Victory Tour that there would be no more secrets.

He looks so forlorn, so sad, as he shuffles into the dining room. 'Hangdog,' my mother would call it, and that seems to fit. A dog just wants to help you and make you happy, and a dog is dejected if he upsets you, head hanging low because he can't bear to see your displeasure.

Peeta meets my eyes for only a split second before they’re cast down to the floor again. The spine-straightening determination that had him pushing us to train is gone. His shoulders slump under the weight of guilt. He notices, I’m sure, that my sister and my mother don’t greet him with their usual smiles. They shouldn’t be mad, but I can’t blame them.

I even catch Prim giving him side-eye. Side-eye from Prim is like a dagger to the heart.

Peeta looks back and forth between me and my mother. I think he’s trying to decide if he wants to ask me how my ankle feels or ask my mother her medical opinion of my condition. When his eyes finally settle on me, he looks like he’s about to cry. A quick breath catches in his throat.

“Can I help at all, Katniss?” he says finally, with a painful quiver in his strained voice like the bow on a fiddle string at the end of a dance. “Maybe carry you upstairs?”

Oh, Peeta. He must remember that night after the last time I injured my ankle. When he carried me up and laid me on the bed, I pressed his hand against my face and asked him to stay with me.

I must tell him. I have the power to put light back in his eyes, eyes so dark right now it’s hard to tell that I’m the one with the gray ones.

But I can’t. I gave my word. I can offer only tiny comforts.

“I’m okay, Peeta. It’s not anywhere near as bad as last time. I managed to hobble in here to the table.”

This gets a raise of his eyebrows. I probably shouldn’t have said ‘hobble.’ “You’re walking on it?! You shouldn’t be walking on it.” He looks to my mother. “She shouldn’t be walking on it, should she?”

My mother lets out a sigh. The sigh is even worse than Prim’s side-eye. Peeta winces like he’s been stabbed again.

“She shouldn’t be walking on it. But she insisted, and we helped her in here.”

“You can help me upstairs, though,” I tell him. “I don’t want to attempt the stairs.”

He nods, his mouth a tiny line of lips pressed together. It matches the line furrowing his brow.

I ache. I have to do something for him. Anything.

“I’m pretty much done anyway. Pull me out from the table?” I’m going to let him help me as much as possible. That will make him happy. Or as close as he can get to happy right now. But I won’t let my mother give me any sleeping syrup this time. I have to keep my wits about me.

Peeta hurries behind me and pulls out my chair. He doesn’t help me to my feet but instead scoops me right up off the chair and into his arms. He’s definitely done his part for getting in shape. His arms are as strong as they’ve ever been. And being in them feels as good as it’s ever felt.

I weave my hands behind his neck and bring my face a little closer to his than I need to. He won’t look me in the eye, but he can’t hide from me. He blinks, and his eyelids stay closed as he feels my breath against his face.

He said once that I don’t know the effect that I have. Maybe that’s still true. But I know the effect I have on _him_.

He’s so sure-footed carrying me up the stairs, you’d never know he has an artificial leg. In the bathroom, he has me sit on the edge of the tub while he squirts the toothpaste on my toothbrush. He won’t let me get to the toilet on my own but has Prim come up to help me. She gets me into my nightgown, and then Peeta once again scoops me up and carries me to my bed.

Prim goes back down to help Mother clean up from dinner, and now Peeta and I are alone. He sits on the edge of the bed. I know what’s coming.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

“You’ve said that enough. Stop.”

“But it’s my fault.”

“No. I should’ve kept my eyes on the ground.”

He looks down, tugging gently on my quilt to straighten it. “You’re not used to running sprints.”

“Then it’s the fault of the clumsy squirrel who dropped those acorns out of the tree. I hate greedy animals who waste food.”

“Katniss --”

“Stop.”

I take his chin in my hand and make him look at me. The pain in his eyes goes so deep I could drown if I stay there, and I find myself looking away.

I could take away this pain. I could tell him. Share the hope that I feel. The information from Haymitch is turning from a blessing to a curse. It’s trying to claw its way out of me, like I’ve swallowed an angry cat. How am I going to go through weeks of this? It’s enough to make me long for the arena.

I take a deep breath like I’m going under and force my gaze back to his. “Peeta, I’m going to be fine. My mother says I’ll be back in tip-top shape in a week. This isn’t going to affect me in the arena.”

“Your mom really said that?”

“Yes.” Or no. Does it matter? Our lives are a web of lies now anyway.

I don’t know if he believes me, but he tries to give me a smile. It has the effect of a corkscrew twisting in my abdomen. He still looks miserable. He’s terrified for me.

I gave Haymitch my word. I think it’s dumb not to tell Peeta – he’s far craftier than I am – but it’s not my decision.

I lay a hand on his face and lean forward, my lips on his other cheek. I give him the tiniest kiss and whisper in his ear.

“You have to trust me.”

 

++++++

 

He shouldn’t have trusted me.

Haymitch was right to worry. This is too much of a burden. How do I not tell them?

Gale comes to see me the next day, while I’m still laid up in bed. I know the look in his eye, the way he twists his muscular hands together, like he’s wringing the neck of a rabbit caught in one of his traps. If Prim is capable of shooting Peeta a dark glance, then Gale is ready to strangle him.

I get it. He understands survival better than anyone I know. He knows the importance of being light on your feet. Being able to run, to hide, to hunt. I wouldn’t have made it past the first day of the Games had I not possessed that fleetness of foot.

I don’t lie to him like I did Peeta. Gale would see through it, the way an x-ray machine can see bones. And I know the redness in his eyes is not from coal dust. He did us both a favor and got his emotions in check before coming into my room.

“You’ve got the whole train ride,” he says. “That’ll buy you a couple days of rest.”

Oh, Gale. Ever practical. Some things don’t change. We both learned long ago that dwelling on pain is pointless. You have to focus on what you can do.

I smile at him. Not to comfort him or cheer him, but because I appreciate him. A part of my heart will always belong to him, if it keeps beating.

That’s one of the questions I’m not allowed to ask Haymitch – whether the rebels have a plan to get Gale and our families out of 12 if I manage to blow the roof off of the arena. The Capitol will come for them for sure. And that’s the one answer I might demand, or it’s a deal-breaker. I’d rather die in the arena than have my loved ones tortured.

But right now I have a more immediate interest in Gale.

“I need your help,” I tell him.

“Sure. Anything. Do you want to get up?”

“Yes. I want to get up.” I lower my voice. “And then I want you to help me over the fence.”

He throws up his hands. “No. No way. Absolutely not.”

I shush at him to lower his voice, and I whisper, “You said ‘anything.’ Does ‘anything’ mean something different now?”

Gale doesn’t ask why we’re whispering. He probably thinks I don’t want my mother to know that I’m planning something so reckless. “I didn’t realize I was talking to a crazy person. The fence is on all the time now, Catnip. And the peacekeepers –“

“We’ll go at night. They won’t be out.”

“You can’t hunt at night.”

“I didn’t say anything about hunting.”

“Then why do you want to go into the woods?”

I look him steadily in the eye, so he’ll know I’m not kidding around.

“I’m going to shoot the moon.”


	3. The Medicinal Uses of Dandelions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to **papofglencoe** for the beta. If you want to learn more about [the plants of THG](https://pinksnailsaver.tumblr.com/post/160220681523/plants-of-the-hunger-games), see the article that inspired part of this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

Gale has barely made his exit when Peeta appears again in my bedroom doorway. I’m surprised I didn’t hear an altercation, since my hunting partner looked like he was out for blood.

“Did you run into Gale?” I ask.

“No,” says Peeta. “I waited until he was gone.”

“You got over here pretty fast.”

“I was just hanging out downstairs.”

I raise a teasing eyebrow at him. “So, what, you hid in the kitchen?”

“I couldn’t hide in the kitchen. I didn’t know if he might go out the backdoor.”

“So you hid…?”

“In a closet.”

I can’t help but laugh. Yes, we’re all very brave. We’ll make great resistance fighters.

He dips his head sheepishly. “Your mom made me,” he insists. “She feared for my safety.”

I just shake my head. “Sit down.”

“I brought cookies. I gave them to your mom. She said she would make some tea for us.”

“Thanks.” Guilt cookies. That’s a new one. Usually Peeta bakes bread when he’s stressed out. It takes more muscle, relieves the tension. And then of course he shows up with cheese buns when he’s trying to bribe or placate me.

I realize how funny it is that I know all that. The foods for our moods.

Peeta reaches into his leather satchel and pulls out our medicinal herb book. “I thought we could work on this again, while you’re off your feet.”

His blue eyes peer at me hopefully. The melancholy and pain are still there, but they’re not strong enough to override his desire to be here, with me. That’s the difference between us. When I’m upset, I want to run away and be alone. If I’m feeling guilty, I want to avoid the person I’ve wronged as much as possible. But Peeta’s like Prim. If there’s injury, he runs toward it, even if it’s one he thinks he caused. He doesn’t think about himself. He just wants to help.

And maybe he wants to spend time with me because he knows we have so little time left.

Or _thinks_ he knows.

But I can’t tell him. I can’t offer him that ray of hope that Haymitch extended to me.

So instead I nod agreeably. He pulls the chair up right next to the bed and opens the book on the space between us. The pages flip apart to reveal the sheet of notes tucked inside, bookmarking the latest entry and telling us what we’re working on next.

“Where were we?” I ask.

“I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

I take the piece of paper and peruse the list. It’s an assemblage of different handwriting – some contributions from me and from Prim, most from my mother.

One entry in particular jumps out at me.

“We haven’t done dandelions yet?” I ask.

“No.” He notes the surprise in my voice. “Why?”

“Well, it’s just… they’re very important. In the sense of being useful, I mean.”

“How? I know people eat the greens…”

“All of it is edible. And medicinal. The leaves have a ton of iron; my mom cooked them for Prim when she thought she had anemia. And she uses the roots in some remedies, and the stem sap on its own is a salve for bee stings and blisters.”

“Wow. You’re an expert on dandelions. And I thought they were just a weed that my mother hates.”

“Your mother _would_.”

Peeta ignores that. “I guess we didn’t put them in the book yet because your mom wanted us to focus on the lesser-known plants, like the ones you have to get from the woods. Dandelions are everywhere.”

“That doesn’t make them less important. One dandelion can be the difference between life and death.”

He doesn’t say anything then, but he looks at me, and through his clear blue eyes I can see the wheels turning in his head. Does he remember? Did he notice that fateful afternoon, watching me in the schoolyard, when I should have thanked him for saving my life? He saved it again that day, and he doesn’t know.

I drop my eyes back the book. “Let’s get started,” I say. I need to focus. Thoughts about Peeta and the hope for survival are the last thing I need right now. That will only make it worse.

“I can draw a dandelion no problem,” he says, “but if you want me to draw the roots and leaves accurately, I’ll need a sample. In the meantime there are still a couple more that need the uses written up, and some sketches I need to color in.”

He opens his satchel again and pulls out his colored pencils and watercolor paints.

“Okay. I’ll have Prim go pick some.”

“Make sure she gets the roots and everything. Or I could do it. I’ll know what I need.”

I think about it and find myself gazing at him. With the sun streaming through the window and lighting his golden hair and lashes, I can picture him out on a warm, bright afternoon, picking dandelions in the meadow. And I want to be with him.

I want to see my meadow. Just like I want to see my woods. The last time I faced a reaping, I had no idea I’d be leaving, no chance to think of what I’d miss, no opportunity to say goodbye. Now I know that even if I manage to emerge from the arena alive, I won’t be able to come back here. And who knows what will be left of District 12 when the war is over, if I survive to see the end.

With me being off my feet, I won’t have much opportunity. I’ll have a day or two at most before the reaping. But I’m not mad at Peeta. I can’t be mad. And not just because it’s not really his fault. I’ve been mad at all kinds of people for things that probably weren’t their fault. That anger fueled my survival.

No, I can’t be mad at Peeta because I can see the sunshine in his hair, and I know that he is the sunshine in my life, and that my Peeta, my golden dandelion, has fueled me more than anything. Because he gave me hope.

And I’m withholding it from him now. I need to give him something. Some kind of comfort. Something warm and golden and life-affirming like a bouquet of dandelions. I want to wrap my arms around him and promise him that everything will be okay, even if I can’t tell him that there’s a plan, that I might be able to get us out.

And that’s exactly why Haymitch shouldn’t have trusted me, because I’m not sure where that line is, what is and what is not safe to say, and I feel like I’m going to slip and step over it, like stepping off our starting posts in the arena before the countdown is finished.

Peeta catches me staring at him. I remember sitting like this the last time we worked on the book, mesmerized by his long, beautiful lashes. I was embarrassed when he caught me looking.

He smiles at me, his sweet smile that can melt the edges of my steel-coated heart.

This time I don’t look away.

I don’t know how many moments pass, but suddenly he’s the one who looks embarrassed. “What?” he says, like he thinks he’s got something on his face. Frosting or paint residue.

I can’t look away. I’m caught in his eyes. Something tells me this is the moment. Whatever I’m going to do, it has to be now.

Another moment passes, and Peeta no longer looks embarrassed. Still confused, maybe, his brows knitting slightly. But he’s perceptive enough that he must sense it…

Something has changed, the energy in the air between us, invisible particles speeding up. His face is barely two feet away from mine, but I don’t turn my head or look away, except just enough for my gaze to drop from his eyes to his lips, which are parted.

“What?” he says again, more urgent now. There’s a soft tremor in his voice, something I think no one but me could ever hear.

My thoughts are racing. I can’t say anything. I promised. And it’s too dangerous. The walls have ears, as Haymitch said. Even here, in my bedroom. Do the walls have eyes, too, I wonder? Haymitch said that’s unlikely. Audio they can run through a computer database that picks up words. Video doesn’t work that way, and they don’t have a team of people to sit and watch all of us in every room 24-7. Not like the arena, or even the rooms in the Training Center.

If Peeta and I don’t make it out alive – and the odds are still against it – this could be one of the last moments we have without a camera on us.

I’m not sure when my thoughts ended and I started talking out loud. I blame the closeness of Peeta’s lips.

“Do you know,” I begin, as if waiting several seconds to answer his question is the most normal thing in the world, “that I have no idea what it’s like to kiss you without an audience?”

I don’t know what Peeta was expecting me to say, but I must have exceeded those expectations, because his mouth drops open, and his body seems to ripple like a shock wave ran through him from the ground up, ending with his head snapping back slightly and his eyes closing.

When he opens his eyes again, his lids are lower, and there’s a heat in them that I’ve never seen before. The air between us is crackling now, like static electricity.

I think I’m just as shocked as he is. I’m not sure, but I think I just asked him to kiss me.

Peeta regains his composure. He keeps his eyes trained on mine and says in a soft, slow voice, “I’m happy to satisfy your curiosity anytime you want, Katniss.”

Part of me is absolutely terrified. What have I just done? My heart leaps up into my throat, and I close my mouth, afraid it might keep going and jump out the window. At last I break our impromptu staring contest and look down at my hands.

Then there’s another part of me, lower in my body, that isn’t scared at all, the part that feels the heat in Peeta’s eyes and voice and allows that heat to kindle a tiny flame.

I don’t know what to do, and by instinct I look to Peeta for help.

His mouth still hangs open, and his bottom lip quivers. It’s like I can hear his heart beat faster. Does he realize that he’s leaning closer to me? Or am I leaning closer to him? Does he realize that his tongue just flitted out to lick his lips?

He’s so close now I can smell the subtle fragrance on his skin of the cookies he baked, vanilla and cardamom and the faint traces of icing sugar that probably billowed up and powdered him. As if it were possible for him to get any sweeter.

The last thing that happens is I close my eyes. I don’t need sight to find him now.

When our lips meet, I have to remind myself that I’ve felt these lips before. They’re so different now. He’s different. I’m different. Maybe it’s the heat, mixed with the curiosity. I felt that once before, back in the arena, in the cave, a tiny spark that made me want to continue a kiss. But then there followed so many kisses just for show, in the Capitol and on the Victory Tour, so many that kissing Peeta was like shaking hands.

But now it’s just us. No audience, no weight of Presidential expectations, and the spark is igniting in me, keeping my lips moving on his for several seconds. I can _feel_ him in a way I can’t explain, feel his emotion, feel that this is real for him the way it is for me. I can feel that neither of us wants it to end.

At last, reluctantly, I pull away, and only then do I realize that part of my reluctance is that I have no idea what to do or say now that we have had this kiss. I look down, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m no longer leaning back against pillows. I’m turned toward him, not just my face but my whole upper body. He’s turned toward me, too. He has his hands knotted together in his lap, with his elbows at weird angles, as if he had to restrain himself from reaching out to me.

He must sense my unease, because he unfolds his hands and tucks a finger under my chin to tilt my face up. I find him smiling at me.

“So…” he says. His voice is surprisingly light and casual. “What do you think?” He pauses, waits for an answer, and when I don’t provide one, he continues. “Was it different than with an audience? I’m dying to hear your opinion.”

He crooks an eyebrow at me, indicating that it is clearly now my turn to speak.

“I don’t know,” I say. “What do _you_ think?”

“Well, this wasn’t my experiment, so my input probably isn’t important.”

I latch on to this scientific tone of conversation like a lifeline. It’s as if we’re discussing the herbs in the book, and he wants to know the uses for milk thistle.

So I say, “I’m still interested in your opinion. You know, while I sort out my thoughts so I can give a properly useful response.”

Peeta chuckles. “Definitely better than the Victory Tour. This felt like a real kiss. But it’s harder to compare to the kisses in the arena, when I thought you had real feelings for me. Which is why I’m eager to hear your take on things.”

Does the shock I feel register on my face? I can’t believe that he’s offering me a way out. He’s saying he has no expectations that anything has changed between us, although that must be a lie. He must’ve _felt_ what I felt, even if I had no idea that those feelings were there beforehand.

That’s Peeta. He doesn’t want to pressure me in any way. I can see in his eyes that he wants more. But he’s willing to let me say this was just an experiment, like in science class. That nothing has changed.

And I love him for it.

“I think…” I have to stop myself and take a deep breath. I got into this because I wanted to do something for him to take away his pain, even if just for a moment…

The next move is not for him. It’s for me. After my bold staring of just moments earlier, now I can’t look at him, and I cast my eyes down shyly. My chin drops toward my chest until a dark wave of unbraided hair falls in my face. Finally I say, “I think I need some more input to make my decision.”

He tries to stifle his sharp intake of breath, but my eyes are on his chest, and I can see it heave.

I look up at him now, and his hands are moving to my face, pushing back my hair. I reach for him, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and pulling him toward me. And then just as quickly I let go.

“Wait!” I cry, pushing him back.

Peeta lets go of me. He looks startled, maybe even hurt.

I can’t have that, so I quickly explain, “The book!” It still sits on the bed between us, and I was about to knock it to the floor as I angled my hips toward him.

He looks down, clearly relieved. “Right. Wouldn’t want to destroy all that hard work.” He carefully closes the book and sets it on the floor.

He sits down in his chair again. He’s nervous as he looks at me, biting his lip, afraid that the moment has been ruined, the spell broken.

I point to where my foot is propped up on pillows. “It’s hard for me to turn, anyway, because of my ankle. Why don’t you come lie down next to me?”

_What am I doing?_

This is crazy. Stupid. I’ll regret it later. But right now I need to keep kissing him.

I certainly don’t have to ask twice. Peeta crawls onto the bed and lies down on his side next to me, all of his sweetness and his heat so close to me. He brings his hand up to my face again. There’s a roughness in his skin, chafed by wooden spoons and rolling pins, but his touch is so tender. I follow suit and lay a hand against his cheek. He moves over me, and then our lips are together again.

This kiss is not so tentative or gentle. Our noses war as our mouths move back and forth. Our breaths intermingle. I part my lips and feel the wetness of his, and then the tip of his tongue greets mine. I gasp, and I can hear the small moan come up from his throat. Both his hands are on me now, fingers running through my hair, pulling me closer to him. We’ve passed over some threshold now into something intimate, something we’ve never done for the cameras. This is mine. His. Ours alone.

The heat builds up again. It stirs in me, low and slow, the way my mother taught me to fold in the flour so the dough stays light and fluffy. A gentle churning.

Why does Peeta have to feel so good? So good that I don’t want to stop?

But we do stop, suddenly, because --

The jarring clink and clatter of glass – no, china –  sliding and colliding is almost simultaneous with the cry from the hallway:

“Oh!”

Our bodies both freeze as Peeta and I whip our faces toward the open door to see Prim struggling to keep everything from sliding off the tea tray she’s carrying. She manages to prevent the cups and teapot from going over, but first one and then a second cookie slide off the plate and hit the floor, crumbling apart.

“Darn it!” she cries, frowning down at the mess she’s made. And then she looks at us, her pale eyes wide. We must have been the sight that startled her into stumbling in the first place. “Sorry.”

Peeta shifts his gaze back down at me. Yes, _down._  I’m on my back now, and his upper body is hovering over me, pushed up from where it was against me, _on_ me, before he heard Prim.

I want to hide. I can’t believe my baby sister found us like this. I’m so embarrassed I could –

 _Wait._ What is _that_?

Out of the corner of my mortified eyes I see something forming on Prim’s face that looks like a relic of a bygone era. Is that a... _smile_?

I haven’t seen her smile since before the Quell was announced. But there it is, her lips wide and curled up in a beautiful bow. It’s not just an embarrassed smile, either. It looks like, well… plain old-fashioned happiness.

She even looks like she’s _fighting_ the smile, lest it get any bigger. She bites her bottom lip as she walks into my room and sets the tray on the dresser. “I’ll leave this here,” she says, a trill in her voice that could be nervousness or excitement, or both. “Mom wants to know if Peeta is staying for dinner, and I’m just going to go ahead and say yes.”

Her cheeks flush as she nods and walks backward to the door, still smiling, then kneels to pick up the broken cookie pieces.

Peeta, unlike me, is able to speak. “Thanks, Prim,” he says cheerfully.

She nods again and then disappears.

Peeta looks down at me. “Are you okay?”

I squeeze my eyes closed and groan. “Do I _look_ okay?”

“Do you want my honest opinion?”

I open my eyes. “What?”

His are smiling down at me. “You look beautiful.” With that, he kisses the tip of my nose and pushes up off the bed. He walks over to the dresser. “Let’s have some tea.”


End file.
